


The One Who Ignites a Star Must First Suffer a Burn

by Celticheavens



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, romantic undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticheavens/pseuds/Celticheavens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in a dystopia in the near future when national boundaries have been eradicated in what is now coined as the end of the Age of Nations, the story follows excerpts from the life of a young man called Alfred, whose journey brings him experiences on both sides of the situation: as the talented protégé of the authoritative ruling party’s (the Council) master spy, and later as a rebel seeking to overthrow the very System that he once helped perpetuate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Who Ignites a Star Must First Suffer a Burn

**Author's Note:**

> The break "***" refers to incidences happening in the present and "~*~" is used when preceding flashbacks to events of the past.

The soft soles of his leather boots pad soundlessly across the marble floor. A man hugs the periphery of shadows, each step carefully measured and confident; eyes constantly surveying his undisturbed surroundings as he continues his path down the seemingly endless hallways. It has been a little over half an hour since he has entered the Citadel, which just as well happens to be the luxury of time he has left to achieve his objective before heading back to the extraction point. But thankfully for him, the item he seeks lies in the room yonder.

The non-reflective monitor screen on his bracer lights up faintly, temporarily breaking his concentration and drawing his attention to a pulsing circle indicating a position just shy of thirty meters from his current location.

_Forecast for today’s mission: a one percent chance of a leisurely stroll in the proverbial park against a ninety-nine percent chance of fireworks and a painful seamstress bill._

Fingers ghosting over the surface, the machine spits out a single word at him in orange capitals: Knight. The man fights back a groan of exasperation yet accented with relief.

_Pretty much a typical assignment for the rebel group that calls themselves The Revolutionaries._

“Great, so they did station a new guard dog here.” His jaw tightens as he peers at the screen once more, double-checking to ensure that the color of the indicator is still unchanged. “At least it’s still dormant.’”

_A team comprising of barely a dozen men and women who are fed up with being herded like cattle, fed up with biting their tongues yet again, fed up with being “free” citizens; basically, they are fed up with the damned System._

Whether the sentry will activate later is another story.

_In their ranks resides a newcomer, a spirited hopeful in the form of Alfred F. Jones. Besides his near infectious youthful energy that has revitalized the morale of the group more than once, his fellow dissidents have always commented that he is a lucky guy._

Blue eyes, often commented on by the others to be reminiscent of the free skies of yesterday, narrow as he watches the circle on his monitor shrink with each step. Soon, the still form of the part mechanical part crystal giant separates from the envelop of blackness.

_Admittedly, despite his impeccable combat and espionage skills also playing a part in his unusually high mission success rate, the hand of fate has always been kind enough to grant him the luxury of numerous narrow escapes._

He instinctively reaches for the stun rod secured on his belt, posture shifting almost casually to that of a more aggressive stance. Jaw grimly set, he mentally replays the motions needed to temporarily incapacitate the Knight, hoping that the chance never comes to pass. As much as running away leaves an unsavory taste of certain failure in his mouth, Alfred knows it is more bearable than the willing servitude and placation that comes if he loses.

_However, some days he can’t help but wonder if fate feels more than content to take on the role of a mere spectator; watching in delight as he scampers within enemy territory._

He cautiously loops around the insentient guard, footsteps unconsciously lighter and more deliberate than before, and never once breaking eye contact. “Come on, just a while longer…” Alfred whispers internally as he glimpses the ceiling-high ivory doors around twenty paces behind the still motionless obstacle. As long as the integrity of the access code he was provided with holds, he should be able to complete his assignment within a quarter of an hour.

_Today seems to be one such occasion._

Just as the man was about to approach the doors, he hears the cacophonous screeching of metal scraping quartz behind him, the disconcerting noise escalating in intensity as the colossal guardian unfolds its limbs and grasps its massive lance. Alfred curses angrily under his breath before taking off racing. Bracing himself more mentally than physically, he skids to a stop in front of the digital keypad lock, stealing a quick glance over his shoulder to determine if the Knight has fully awakened. The clear crystals encase within its gigantic structure start to emit a soft blue glow, indicating that the internal processing unit of the creature is starting up. Alfred knows he has seconds before the guard becomes aware of his presence, and he needs to make each of them count.

_But fortunately for him, fate can be a terrible tease; pretending to abandon him in times of need, only to fish his near desperate form out of the deep end and gifting him a hair’s worth of maneuverability._

His fingers punch the alien symbols embossed in cold steel with familiarity, releasing a breath he has been unconsciously holding as the stone doors begin to slide open at a painstakingly slow pace. He hears a loud whir from the machine, a signal that his window of opportunity is quickly passing him by. Once the Knight awakes, it has been programmed to override all manual access without visual and genetic confirmation. Not waiting for any more of an invitation, Alfred forces himself through the small opening, ignoring how his clothes did little to stop the rough edges of the door from dragging painfully across his form. With a final push, he tumbles inelegantly into the room, wincing as his shoulder contacts the cold floor just as the heavy doors slam shut behind him with a resounding boom.

_The additional buffer isn’t much, but for Alfred, it’s just enough._

The infiltrator dusts himself off and checks his bruised shoulder, relieved that it is neither fractured nor dislocated. “That was close. A little too close even for me,” he sighs. Still fueled by the remnants of adrenaline flowing through his veins, he surveys the familiar surroundings. The wall across him features a myriad of holographic screens, each depicting in real time the different aspects of the population and environment. He remembers a time when he stared in awe at the intricacies of the technology before him, and raveled in the opportunity of being part of the privileged few to be in its vicinity. Back then, his innocence prevented him from fully fathoming the magnitude and complexity of the sight, feeling more enthralled by the lightshow than the significance as he was led around by the closest person he had to a father figure. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Alfred turns his attention to the oval table at the center of the room. Recalling his previous visits in a life he has now abandoned, he runs his fingers along its underside until he feels a nearly impalpable groove. He gently pushes against it, revealing a hidden compartment the size of a quarter. “Good to know that some things never change.” He retrieves the item within –an encased nanotube integrated circuit–, the first key to a new future. “I shouldn’t even be surprised,” he continues to himself, “Even he won’t believe that I can get past the upgraded security system and annoying hulk of a toy.” He hesitates for a moment, choosing to force the dams on what is becoming an untimely reminiscence shut, temporarily smothering any stray thoughts that may jeopardize his mission. He can do the soul-searching later, now he needs to take his leave.

_After all, why else would he be chosen to infiltrate the heart of the Empire, evade its state of the art security system, and abscond with valuable intelligence on future battle plans? What can he say, they are just all in a day’s work._

Placing the prize carefully into the chest pocket of his combat vest, Alfred prepares to escape through the Citadel’s extensive ventilation system. Just then, he hears the unmistakable grinding of stone as the doors begin to slide open. Deciding that he has finally overstayed his welcome, the man easily swings himself onto the narrow ridge next to a vent, fingers already reaching for his laser cutter. Feeling his pulse quicken as the muffled footsteps ring in increasing clarity, Alfred licks his chapped lips in bridled apprehension as his hands guide the laser steadily across the last inch of metal. Taking extra care when removing and replacing the heavy steel grate, he climbs into the cramped tunnel, the colors of his outfit seamlessly melding into the column of darkness encased within. And not a moment too soon as an unintelligible murmur of voices reaches his ears. “Definitely too close for comfort,” he breathes, echoing his sentiments from before. Not wanting to risk exposing himself, Alfred hurries deeper into the murky void, noting that the stale air must have finally gotten to his brain as he resists the puerile urge to shout _hasta la vista, baby_.

***

“I hope things are proceeding smoothly on your end, General,” a crisp voice half enquires, its owner clearly more interested in the dynamic changes on the multitude of holographic screens. “If the information you have provided me is as accurate as you claim,” ice cold irises turn to observe the former, “Then everything is proceeding as we have planned.” Both men stop before the sizable glossed walnut and black marble conference table, neither taking the initiative.

“Rest assured that my intelligence is never wrong, Ludwig,” he smoothes the crinkles of his heavy mess jacket, immaculately polished gold buttons glistering under the artificial light of the holograms. “Have I let the Council down so far?” He gestures at the screens, numbers morphing at dizzying rates as each gets transcribed into yet another series of elaborate graphs.

The taller man eyes the other warily, knowing that the Director of Intelligence has proven himself more than once with his small but unmatched team of spies. A descendent of the last chief of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service during the Age of Nations, he possesses an almost uncanny knack of obtaining even the most obscure shred of information, earning him the nickname _Watcher_. How he procures such sensitive material and widespread compliance, even a hardened ex-mercenary like the General prefers not to ask, choosing to instead terminate the conversation. “Point noted, Arthur.”

Letting his companion analyze the data for himself, Arthur paces casually about the room, knowing that the pair has more than sufficient time to spare before the banquet commences in the main tower. Circling over to the control panels, he gives the inputs a quick once over for good measure. He does not get the chance to complete his examination, muscles reflexively tensing as a nearly imperceptible movement at the corner of his eye catches his attention. Turning towards the source of distraction, Arthur swears he just manages to catch the ghost of a familiar silhouette with an unmistakable flash of gold disappear into the vents. “It can’t be,” he lets the thought trail off, leaving the unspoken words unpleasantly clinging to his tongue, his normally bright eyes clouded in sheer disbelief at what he prefers to imagine as a cruel trick of his fatigued mind. He leans slightly against the softly humming panels, a sheen of cold sweat inducing a blanket of goosebumps across his exposed skin, brows deeply furrowed and pupils dilated as his mind threatens to overflow with a barrage of thoughts and emotions: anger, fear, disappointment, and longing, each tugging its own set of unwanted memories to the forefront of his mind’s eye.

“…Agriculture Sector 6K’s productivity needs to be looked into or it-, Arthur?” The General turns at the lack of response from his associate, and upon noticing the other man’s change in demeanor, quickly approaches him. The firm weight of his friend’s hand on his shoulder snaps Arthur from his temporal trance. Doing his best to swallow the choking lump in his throat, he straightens his form as nonchalantly as he can to preserve his faltering dignity, opting to uphold the proud lineage of nobility imbued in his veins. Consciously remembering to maintain a stiff upper lip this time, he slips back into his persona as the Watcher of the new world before calmly intercepting the other’s question, “My apologies, my friend. The lack of sleep must have finally gotten to me.”

Ludwig remains silent as the other man adjusts his sleeves. He _looks_ fine, “As he usually does,” the soldier muses, noting how the other’s surprisingly delicate features remain deceptively placid. He mentally activates his digital scans, invisible pulses seeping into Arthur’s body, waves dancing amidst complex molecular structures, leaving all but a mist of vibrations before returning to its source. “I said I’m fine,” the shorter man repeated, voice a little harsher and a shade darker than before after an involuntarily shiver ran down his spine, a telltale sign of a biochemical scan. “I heard you the first time,” Ludwig reads the digital chart that has just materialized in his head. He mentally checks off the usual culprits of insomnia: lower than average levels of melatonin, increased heart rate, and higher than normal spontaneous eye blink rate. Rapidly scanning the remaining information, he notices the significant stress level, characterized by the activation of the sympathetic nervous system, with a substantial spike in activity of the amygdala and hippocampus. In other words, whatever the stimulus was, it was sufficient enough to instigate an emotional response and initiate normally latent cognitive memory processes. Choosing against his better judgment, Ludwig files away his analysis before curtly stating, “We should go.” After all, they all have some secrets they prefer to keep buried.

The two men continue wordlessly towards the exit, neither’s eyes meeting the other. The only sound marking their departure is the gradual fading of sharp purposeful clicks of their boots against the polished floor as silence reverberates through the enclosed chamber once more.

***

“Well, if it isn’t our favorite spy,” a silken voice calls out half teasingly at Alfred’s entrance to the group’s hideaway. “Told you not to call me that, Francis,” the latter grumbles as he shrugs off the heavy equipment from his assignment earlier, rolling his shoulders in relief as the painful ache eases into a tolerable dull throb. “Well, you did just steal some rather sensitive and confidential information from the Council. That action itself qualifies the use of the term ‘spy’, Alfred,” Kiku responds, a hint of amusement evident in his eyes as he offers to hold the discarded items. “Yeah, yeah. I just don’t like the word you know?” Alfred winces, emphasizing his point.

The first man eyes his slightly sullen friend thoughtfully before asking, “So, how did it go?” Almost as if someone has flicked a switch inside him, Alfred face lights up, a radiant smile immediately replacing the frown he was wearing moments earlier. He reaches into his pocket and removes a box, “See for yourselves!” He passes the item to his raven-haired companion, smile widening as he receives a little bow in return, “Thank you very much for your efforts, friend.” The ex-Frenchman whistles appreciatively as he accepts the box next, carefully opening it to examine the intricate technology inside. The metallic blue structure gleams under the weak lighting, mesmerizing diaphanous patterns swirling lazily across its surface before dissolving into the ends of his fingers.

“It’s something huh?” Alfred comments before grabbing a bottle of purified water from their makeshift fridge. He feels the cool liquid rush down his parched throat and flow into his chest before expanding into every last inch of his body, quenching the prickly dryness in his mouth and temporarily dissipating the general soreness of his limbs. “You can crack it right, Kiku?” Francis replaces the cover, imprints of colors still stubbornly present in the peripheries of his vision, and returns it to the group’s technician. Kiku inspects the chip once more before replying, “It’s similar to the last one, but it might take a while to properly circumvent the failsafe.” Alfred nods in acknowledgement, glad that their final plan to take down the System is falling into place. “And you?” Francis turns his attention to the other blond, his tone a tad more somber, “I trust you will do the right thing when the time comes?” Alfred looks at his now empty bottle, his expression unreadable. He walks towards the table and sets the bottle down with a hollow thud before meeting the eyes of his teammates, “I will do what I must.”

After the other members have returned from their respective assignments, the group enjoys a rather modest meal comprising of a few scraps of dehydrated meat and homegrown greens. Occasionally, some sympathizers will even bring them some fresh meat or fish, but those visits are few and far between; can one really blame them if everyone’s meal portions have been carefully measured down to the single grain based on the specific individual’s needs thanks to the System? The group prefers to remain thankful that the rations combined with their small farm suffice in providing them with much needed nutrition while evading the scanners that dot the landscape beyond the confines of their little solace like a malignant disease, their green lasers hungrily sweeping the earth like noxious tendrils trying to satiate an interminable appetite.

To lighten the mood, their resident joker, a towheaded man by the name of Gilbert proposes a round or ten to celebrate the steady crystallization of the plan they have worked for years on end: a consolidated attack on the heart of the System, an exotic energy source contained in the form of a crystal called the Totum. The members relish the rare moment of vulnerability and raw emotions; the disinhibiting effects of their homebrew clearly visible as ineptly masked concerns and discarded dreams are thoughtlessly strewn, evaporating in the thick atmosphere of drunken laughter entwined with careless hugs. It was almost as if the participants are afraid when the smog of stupor has been lifted from their eyes, the harsh light of reality will resume the agonizing gnawing of anxiety in their souls, and the true weight of their task sitting once more on their tired shoulders.

Alfred tries to rub the sleep from his slumber-laden eyes, and attempts but fails to stifle a massive yawn. He looks around at what passes for a living room in their underground base, members of his “family” lay sprawling across improvised furniture and the unfortunate few soundly asleep on the dirt floor. Just as he feels yet another yawn sneak up on him and his eyes flutter, his fingers reach up habitually to lightly trace the worn metal chain around his neck, the whiff of familiar comfort relaxing him further before he gently clasps the platinum ring that hangs at its center in the heart of his palm. When sleep finally claims him, his fingers curl intuitively around the pendant, almost as though a part of him was trying to create a physical shield to trap the memories contained within. He holds the ring close to his chest like a glass bowl placed beneath a leaky faucet, trapping the wayward droplets mid-escape; the memories reabsorbed into his very being and their contents dispersed throughout the rivers that flow in his veins.

~*~

“What’s your name, lad?” An imposing figure towers over a young boy, eyes boring down into the latter like sharpened emerald shards. Not wanting to betray his attempts at quelling the obvious intimidation, the adolescent puffs his chest out slightly and tries his best to return a defiant stare, “They call me Alfred,” stopping just short of a formal title. The older man raises an eyebrow in what he finds more of an interesting curiosity than an acknowledgement of blatant disrespect, bending down to better meet the glare of the strange boy. He grabs the lad’s, Alfred’s chin, tilting it upwards to better allow the sorry excuse of a lamp to illuminate his features. “You’ve a fiery spirit,” he remarks, prompting a quiet gulp from the other. “I like that.” He releases the boy and turns to the uniformed man next to him, “Get the paperwork ready. I’ll return for him the same time tomorrow.” He meets the pair of astonished eyes once more before turning on his heel, heavy coat billowing around his slender form as he recedes into the starless night, leaving a confounded Alfred to grapple with the fact that tomorrow, he will have a home.

“Training will commence at six in the morning,” the blond man who is now the closest thing he has to a father briefs him, “Basic arithmetic and logic classes are scheduled immediately after lunch…” The words morph into a series of incomprehensible sounds as Alfred feels his mind wandering, attention more captivated by the nearly surreal sight unfolding around him. As the pair walks through the labyrinth of towering pillars and corridors, he cannot help but lose himself in the overwhelming sensation of bewilderment and amazement, shadowed by a tinge of inexplicable but intoxicating fear. It fills his excited being in its entirety, and courses through his blood like a jolt of electricity that leaves his skin tingling with shock and anticipation.

He nearly misses the slowing of pace and the approaching of the first normal sized door they have encountered thus far. “…And do not be late.” The voice stops, the sudden silence snapping the boy out of his daydream, his ears barely registering the final phrase under the scrutiny of the stern unwavering gaze. “Understood?” Alfred merely nods dumbly in response, unsure of what else to say and feeling unpleasantly vulnerable under the intense stare. Arthur looks at the child before him and sees himself in those same shoes not too long ago; face filled with the same uncertainty, yet insufficient to hide the spark of determined fervor. He leads his new pupil into a simply furnished bedroom, inviting the latter to sit on the surprisingly soft sheets. Kneeling to place himself at the same eye level as Alfred, he lets his expression soften before speaking, “I know there's a lot to take in, Alfred.” The boy lifts his eyes and Arthur finds himself immediately drawn into their cerulean depths, and into an innocence that should not exist in such a world plain for him to see. “And your new life is not going to be an easy one. But I’ll be with you each step of the way.” He tugs at his collar, a glint of silver exposing a thin necklace that he unclasps easily. Taking a tiny hand into his own gloved ones, he lets the chain cascade into the adolescent’s palm, closing the latter’s fingers around the glistering pile. He sees Alfred’s confused look, nodding in affirmation to his unvoiced query. What he does not expect is a hug from young lad, the unexpected contact evolving into a ball of foreign warmth nestling comfortably inside his chest. The man feels himself going in for an embrace, but stops himself short upon realization, instead opting to maneuver into an awkward pat on the head and the ruffling of Alfred’s striking mop of golden hair. Just as he was about to exit the door, he hears a soft voice, appreciative albeit cautious, call out to him, “Thank you. And umm, good night, Mister…” “Kirkland,” Arthur replies, a hint of smile evident in his voice. “You can call me Arthur.”

~*~

“You’re getting slow, old man!” Alfred cheerfully calls out as he easily ducks under the roundhouse kick, taking advantage of his mentor’s exposed back to apply a half-hearted knife-hand strike against the side of his neck, but still powered with enough force to send his opponent off-balance. “Gotcha!” He watches as the elder spy twists sideways instinctively to minimize the impact of his fall, carefully absorbing the brunt of the force along his upper arm and shoulder. His opponent is less cheery, a small scowl visible on his face as he stands up and dusts himself off. Alfred approaches him, a cheeky smile still on his face, “Told you I’m just as good as you-, hey!” Before he realizes it, the younger man finds himself on the receiving end of a forward sweep and unable to defend himself, ultimately concluding with Arthur holding him in a painful hammerlock against the training mat. “You forgot lesson one: never leave an enemy standing,” Arthur releases his hold, stepping back to allow his protégé to get back on his feet. His pupil glowers at him, one hand massaging his aching shoulder joint before retorting, “I know my locks, _sir_ ,” making sure to throw a particularly dirty look in the other’s direction, “And I beat you fair and square. There’s no need to go for an overkill in a practice session.” “In the field there is no such thing as practice, Alfred,” the director of intelligence takes a long swing from his canteen, “That kind of thinking will one day cost your life.” “Let’s see if I survive tomorrow first huh?” Alfred challenges, a flash of annoyance in his eyes.

Arthur pauses, inwardly flinching at the comment. Alfred has just graduated from his official training with flying colors, finally becoming a full-fledged spy earlier in the week. Anxious to prove himself in the field, against his mentor’s wishes, he requested to be assigned to an upcoming mission with the aim of suppressing stray pockets of armed rebels in Sector 2Q. The deadly nature and thus higher risk level means that such tasks are usually reserved for the veterans. However, the young spy’s persistence and nearly impeccable test record prompted the mission leader to reconsider his case, landing the thrilled spy a last minute spot much to Arthur’s chagrin. Choosing not to take the bait, the director picks up his towel before asking, “That’s enough for today. Are you hungry?” Knowing that the mention of food never fails to lift the other’s spirits, the mentor is not proven wrong and he soon finds himself facing his beaming student who is already halfway out the door in eagerness. Following behind leisurely, Arthur contemplates fondly, “Some things never change.”

The dinner earlier was an unexceptional event, mostly consisting of barely intelligible incessant chatter courtesy of Alfred, peppered with infrequent statements from the other, mostly in reluctant responses. The pair ambles while engaging in light conversation inside the dormitory wing, both taking comfort in each other’s company before retiring for the night. Midway through his pupil’s rave about the strategy for his upcoming raid, the veteran injects abruptly, “Let me show you something.” He stands and waits for the other to follow, deciding to ignore the puzzled look apparent on his pupil’s face as they let the unfinished one-sided conversation evaporate midair.

Alfred finds himself in his mentor’s room for the first time, fiddling with his glasses and uncomfortably shifting his feet as he stands by the closed door while the latter searches his drawer. He scans the unfamiliar surroundings, enviously eyeing the additional amenities like the living area and kitchenette. The room is definitely larger than his, but the sparse decorations and furniture coupled with the immaculate cleanliness further amplify the open space, almost creating an atmosphere of sterile emptiness.

Arthur beckons the other man over, a slim ornate wooden box in his hands. He carefully opens it, revealing a slightly worn pistol resting among soft folds of velvet. Alfred feels his eyes widen at the sight of an artifact of the days bygone, his mind fills with nostalgia that he never knew resides in him. “The M1911 pistol, point four-five caliber,” his mentor explains, a faraway look in his eyes as he proceeds to remove the gun, grip fitting easily in his hand. “Once a standard issue for military forces in a place called America during the Age of Nations. And one of the few undestroyed originals existing today.” He rotates the weapon, thumbing the smooth surface, “A gift to my father, and him to me.” Alfred watches the other examine the gun, mind still slightly giddy from being this close to something he has only heard passing whispers of, most easily dismissible as unfounded rumors. The older spy replaces the pistol and adjusts the fabric around it before closing the lid with a firm click. He takes the box once more, a hint of wistfulness pervading his usually impassive expression. “And now, from me to you,” he finishes, offering the mahogany case to his protégé; hand heavy with restrained reluctance, but heart undoubtedly certain.

Alfred wordlessly accepts the gift, grateful that the deafeningly loud palpitations of his heart are drowning the whirlwind of questions and unexpressed emotions. He stares numbly at the box in his hands, mind struggling to string together a coherent series of words that adequately captures the ardent burn of gratitude that threatens to overflow his being. He opens his mouth to articulate his thanks, trying to pull the appropriate signifiers from the endless gust of words in his head, only for them to remain trapped on the tip of his tongue, leaving him standing helplessly agape at his mentor. He eventually musters a hoarse “thank you”, vision immediately blurring as the words verbalize. Arthur watches the child he brought back spill his first tears since that warm spring night, and feels his own eyes moisten in response. Giving in to his own sentiments, the man embraces his adopted kin; a medley of vivid memory stills of their time together escalating into an explosion of pride that engulfs his own racing heart, fueled further by the steady pulse of the other’s against his skin and the raw heat of his pupil's neck under his palm. He rests his forehead against Alfred’s, the realization that the younger man has started to outgrow him eliciting an untimely short bark of laughter that also serves to ease the near palpable veil of emotional tension surrounding them. Arthur smiles as Alfred relaxes visibly at his gaffe, fingers moving to outline the other’s jawline, lingering near his chin before murmuring, “No, thank _you_.”

***

Alfred dives behind a pillar, ears stinging at the resonant sounds of plasma rounds ricocheting off the concrete. He throws a cautionary glance over his shoulder as he reloads his own firearm. They have been engaged in this dangerous waltz for a while now, and the rebel knows that they are both running low on ammunition. He steals a look at his bracer, the series of blinking green squares on the screen indicating that the other members of The Revolutionaries have succeeded in fulfilling their mission directives, leaving him to deal the final crippling blow on the Empire by destroying its source of power: the Totum. Taking advantage of the temporal ceasefire, Alfred sprints for better cover. A single shot takes him by surprise, a flash whizzing past his head and sears his cheek. Crouching safely behind the row of control panels, he shouts, “You missed! Eyesight failing so soon?” He gingerly touches the burnt area, wound still stinging sharply, but also noting how lucky he is to have it miss his eye.

“I didn’t,” comes a cold reply, “And my vision has never been better. I’m giving you a chance to surrender.” Alfred feels his face burn with indignation, “And what, go back to playing your sick little game again?!” His opponent seethes at the insult, “This is no game, Alfred.” “If herding the population into fulfilling the whims of a select few isn’t, then I don’t know what is, Arthur!” The younger man peers around the edge of his cover, sighing frustratedly when he sees that his enemy’s energy shield has replenished. The ammo counter on his gun is in the red; he doubts he has enough rounds to breach it again. “We are creating a more _efficient society_ in a _ravaged world_!” Alfred hears the Councilman’s voice start to crack with angry exasperation. “I’m tired of hearing the same bull!” He unlatches a miniature grenade from his belt, “What’s the point of living if your entire life has been planned since the minute you’re born?!” Disengaging the safety with a click, he reconfirms the spy’s position before throwing the metal ball, quickly ducking to evade the impending blast. Arthur hears the solitary clink of metal near his feet. He darts to the side to put some distance between him and the bomb, barely managing to leap over the metal crates before it detonates. The attack exposes him, giving Alfred precious seconds to empty his remaining rounds into his target. Each shot strikes the older combatant squarely in the chest, but as he has feared, they are inadequate in fully compromising the shield’s integrity.

Arthur hears the dry click of a cartridge and the lack of movement that follows. He rubs his chest where the bullets attempted to pierce his defenses. Although they did not penetrate his skin, he can feel the flowering of bruises where they had impacted him. “There aren’t enough resources left for humanity to squander,” the Watcher starts, the other’s disadvantage not lost on him. “If we don’t curb the individual’s innate selfishness, there won’t be a world left for your team of ragamuffins to fight for!” He rises from concealment and walks across the room, handgun trained just above his old pupil’s hiding spot. “Give it up, Alfred. This is a war not worth fighting.”

The rebel knows he is out of bullets and possibly out of luck too; his mind races as it analyzes his limited options of escape from this quandary. He sees the shadow of his past mentor grow and distort until his footsteps cease a short distance behind him. He closes his weary eyes, not wanting to believe that the years of hard work from his team is threatening to vaporize at a pull of the trigger. Not when the crystal lies just past Arthur. Abandoning his now useless gun, he heaves himself off the ground, fragments of rubble embedding themselves painfully in his exposed skin. He finds himself staring down the barrel of the plasma gun into the same intense stare he had first experienced over a decade ago; the familiar fiery green that etched itself into the immortality of his soul on a warm spring night igniting ghosts of memories he once thought he had long lost the keys to. He allows himself to be led by his captor to the center of the room, proud that he still retains sufficient control over his expression to hide the tumultuous storm raging inside him. Holding his head high, he looks into the eyes of the one person who has taught him everything he knows, and utters a single word in defiance, “Never.”

He nearly believes he sees a flicker of pain across the other man’s face before being replaced by the apathy that has long been associated with the most enigmatic member of the Council. He braces himself for the impact, flinching visibly as the electrifying shot rings out. The round misses him, and contacts the wall behind him with a static burst. Alfred watches in disbelief as Arthur lowers his gun, dropping it on the ground beside him. The latter mutters a resigned, “Go,” his head bowed and angled to avoid looking at the other man. Still reeling from shock, the rebel stands his ground trying to make sense of what just happened. A part of him screams to reach out to his estranged kin; to apologize for what was done that cannot be righted; to satiate his suppressed desire for the warmth of his touch once more; to get another chance to walk alongside him, fingers barely touching as they enjoy the evening breezes that meander through the paints of the ephemeral sunset. Yet in another part of him, his thoughts return to the friends he has made over the recent years, the same ones whose lives’ work and hopes of a better tomorrow now hang precariously in the balance. He feels a queasiness erupting in his lower abdomen, undulating waves of nausea forcing his heart into his throat, each palpitation necessitates the drawing in of an increasingly choked breath through his painfully constricting chest, reduced oxygen flow causing his conflicted mind to reel even more. Images rush before him like a reel on loop: a life in which he can return home daily to a wordless embrace, the physical contact their special way of saying “I miss you”; another in which everyone is given the privilege of choice, a palette from which each individual paints their lives in a unique array of colors on the canvas that is the world. Between returning to a life of relative comfort and compliance, and pursuing a life of struggles and freedom, he knows the choice he has to make.

Alfred does not remember drawing the pistol from its holster, nor does he remember releasing the manual and grip safeties before aiming it at Arthur. What he does remember was how exhausted he looked, dark circles shadowing his normally bright eyes, and scratches of wrinkles marring skin that was once smooth. What he does remember was the look of sheer incredulity on his face before it transformed into an amalgamation of fear, disappointment, betrayal and resignation. Alfred does not remember squeezing the trigger, nor does he remember how he recalled that the bullets from conventional firearms of the old possess enough momentum to puncture his weakened energy shield. What he does remember was the eerie silence that enveloped his senses and the dilation of time when it happened, almost as though he was watching a silent replay in third person. What he does remember was the terrifying calmness that washed over him as he watched the brilliant emerald fires in his eyes get snuffed out. And what he does remember were the tears that followed as he looked at the gossamer web of red expanding on his chest, voice painfully shaking as he whispered, “Lesson one: never leave an enemy standing.”

 ***

The flashing red words on the screens denote that his task is now complete. Alfred finds himself staring at the radiantly illuminated crystal suspended in the vacuum of a clear protective column, its body a hypnotic myriad of shifting prismatic colors. He stares in awe, wondering how such a thing of beauty can be behind the powering of the abhorrent system that has enslaved society’s freedom. Knowing that he needs to return to the rendezvous point soon, he circles the remains of the Watcher as he makes his way to the door. His fingers reach up to caress the cool silver chain hidden under his shirt, the ring that hangs from it a reassuring weight against his collarbone. He exits the room, never once turning back before taking off into the depths of the Citadel.

**Author's Note:**

> Despite being in the Hetalia fandom for nearly three years, I still found myself grappling with how someone can condense all the nuances that characterises a nation into a sole character while remaining true to the original inspiration. Admittedly, characterisation has never been my forte (since it took almost two years before I dared to write KaiJou), Hetalia upped the ante even more, forcing my lack of confidence to freeze all buds of inspiration before they can ever blossom into something more. That was precisely why I took on this challenge in the first place: to force an external hand to quell the nervousness that has long become a norm for me in (not doing any) fic writing. The product is what you've just read, and for someone who has been tethering on the edge of falling out of fandom life for a while, I am surprisingly pleased with how this has turned out.
> 
> The relationship between the two protagonists is meant to be blurred between the lines of father-son, and perhaps something more romantic, but that's up for the audience to decide. That said, I hope that despite its shortcomings, this little fic did manage to do a bit of justice to one of my favourite pairings in Hetalia!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not in any way own Hetalia (although I would gladly pay my way through to own Al, Artie, Gil and Luddy).


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